Night settles over Lanyin without ceremony. Lanterns are lit in careful rows, their glow reflected in canals and polished stone. Music drifts from upper floors, laughter follows wine, and deals are struck behind screens of silk. From above, the city appears unchanged—orderly, prosperous, alive. But beneath that surface, something has shifted. Zhen Yan moves through a service corridor behind the eastern market, where crates are stacked and refuse is swept away before dawn. The path is narrow, shadowed, ignored by most. His presence there draws no eyes, yet he feels them all the same.
They are watching more closely now.
He stops beneath an overhanging balcony, listening. Footsteps passing overhead, and a murmured exchange. A pause too long to be a coincidence.
An ambush, then. Zhen Yan exhales slowly. "then, so be it." Stepping forward deliberately, letting his boots scuff the stone just enough to announce himself.
In an immediate reaction, figures drop from the balcony above, landing in practiced silence. Others emerge from the corridor ahead and behind. Six in total. All dressed in muted colors, faces uncovered and their expressions calm. They come prepared. No petals visible, simply professionals.
"You're persistent," one of them says. "That's usually a weakness."
Zhen Yan tilts his head. "You're not Blossom."
"No," the man replies. "We're better paid."
Zhen Yan's sword slides free. The clash is brief. There is no shouting. No dramatic flourish. Only movement—precise, efficient, final. Daggers flicker like passing thoughts. Steel meets steel, then parts.
When it ends, Zhen Yan stands alone again. He does not linger. He knows what comes next.
~~
He reaches the outer residential quarter just as a door slams shut ahead of him.
A child's cry follows. Sharp and fearful.
Zhen Yan's attention is drawn to it, stopping his steps. The sound cuts deeper than steel. He turns when the cry comes again, from a narrow alley between two houses. Lantern light spills weakly from within, shaking as someone moves.
Zhen Yan takes his steps.
A man stands inside the alley, one hand gripping a child by the arm. The child can't be more than eight, eyes wide, breath hitching. The man wears fine clothes, his expression tight with panic rather than cruelty.
"Stay back," the man snaps when he sees Zhen Yan. "This has nothing to do with you."
Zhen Yan's gaze flicks to the man's sleeve. There—barely visible beneath the cuff—a crest.
Not a blossom, but a sigil shaped like interlocking lines.
A great family's mark.
"Let him go," Zhen Yan says.
The man laughs shakily. "You think you can command me?"
Zhen Yan takes one step forward.
"You're afraid," he says. "Not of me but of what you were told."
The man's grip tightens. "You don't understand—"
"I understand," Zhen Yan cuts in. "You were ordered to make noise. To draw me out. And if you failed, you'd be punished."
The man's eyes darts, eyes twitching, "How—"
Zhen Yan's voice softens, just slightly. "You don't need to finish this."
The child looks up at him, tears streaking down his face. Something stirs. Unwanted, unwelcome memory.
A hand pushing him into hiding.
A voice whispering live.
Zhen Yan moves, not fast but certain.
The man stumbles back, grip loosening instinctively. Zhen Yan catches the child, pulling him free and placing him gently behind him. "Run," he says quietly. The child hesitates. Then finally runs.
The man screams, but Zhen Yan does not let him finish.
Later, the alley is empty. Zhen Yan stands alone beneath the flickering lantern light. He looks down at his hands.They are steady. But something inside him is not. He leaves the district before dawn.
~~
High above the city, in a residence surrounded by inner walls and silent guards, a man listens to a report. "A child was spared," the messenger says carefully. "The target intervened."
The man's fingers pause over his tea.
"A weakness," he murmurs.
"No," another voice says from the shadows. "A fracture."
The first man smiles faintly.
"Good," he says. "Then he can be guided."
Outside, dawn begins to bleed into the sky. And Zhen Yan walks east, unaware that the path ahead has narrowed—not by enemies, but by choice. And so the road narrows as Zhen Yan leaves Lanyin behind, soon comes morning mist clinging to the hills, thick and damp, curling around tree trunks and stones like fingers seeking purchase. The smell of wet earth is stronger here, sharper. There is no village, no sound of life beyond distant birds. Only the hum of the wind and the faint rustle of his own footsteps.
He carries the child's image in his mind, not as memory, but as a weight. Eight years, trembling hands, eyes wide with fear. That innocence—the thing he had sworn never to touch again, the thing that still stirs something he refuses to name.
The bamboo hat rests low over his face. The ghost mask hides the shadow behind his eyes, but it does not hide the tension coiled in his shoulders. His sword hangs at his side. Daggers are ready in the folds of his sleeves, the red blossoms on his robes whispering faintly with each step.
The path curves downward toward a narrow gorge. Water drips from overhead rocks, carving channels into moss. He senses it before he sees it—a presence, deliberate, layered, moving with unnatural silence.
A voice comes from the shadows, soft and controlled. "You travel far, Windshadow. Not to hunt… but to provoke."
Zhen Yan tilts his head slightly. "Show yourself."
From behind a bend, a man steps forward. Robes gray, tied simply, with a staff taller than his own height. His face is lined but sharp; eyes intelligent, calculating. This is not one of the Blossom's enforcers. This is someone who moves in their orbit without touching them directly.
"I am Qiu Feng," the man says. "A guide of sorts. For those who… cannot see the full garden yet."
Zhen Yan does not lower his weapon. "A guide for who? The lost?"
"The wandering," Qiu Feng replies. "The hunters. The predators. You have started cutting threads… and now the canopy notices."
Zhen Yan's hand brushes a dagger. "Then you follow me to warn them?"
Qiu Feng tilts his head, as if considering. "I follow because your path interests me. The Windshadow is… rare. Most men break when roots bleed beneath their feet. You, however… you step forward and let them."
Zhen Yan steps closer, fog curling around his boots. "I will step on petals until the tree falls."
A faint smile touches Qiu Feng's lips. "Perhaps. But even petals grow from roots. And roots… sometimes reach deeper than we wish to see."
Before Zhen Yan can answer, the ground vibrates slightly. Not enough to knock him off balance, but enough to signal a presence far larger than the men he has already faced.
Qiu Feng notices it too. His hand rests lightly on the staff. "They've sent more than petals this time," he says. "They want to test the Windshadow personally."
From the gorge above, silhouettes appear: four men, mounted on horses. Their movements are precise, not chaotic. Silver armor glints faintly under the pale morning light. At their waists hang short swords and daggers—their insignia a crescent blossom.
"They ride for the child you spared," Qiu Feng says softly. "And for you."
Zhen Yan does not flinch. His hands move in a fluid motion, releasing two flying daggers simultaneously. Both strike the lead rider's side, unbalancing him slightly but not enough to unseat.
The remaining riders tighten formation, circling, testing. Each movement deliberate, synchronized—trained to anticipate, to trap.
"Your skill," Qiu Feng murmurs, "is precise. But you are still alone."
Zhen Yan's eyes narrow beneath the mask. He releases the sword from its sheath. The metal catches the dim light, red blossoms seeming to flare briefly along the hem of his robe. "I am never alone," he says. "Not while I hold their names in my mind."
The riders charge. The first strike is not a clash of swords but of will. Steel meets steel with sharp arcs, daggers flicker, blades sing in the air. Zhen Yan's movements are fluid, almost lazy, yet every strike cuts a calculated path. The horses rear, the riders adjust, but nothing can break the rhythm.
One falls. Another staggers. The third hesitates for an instant too long. That moment is all Zhen Yan needs.
The child's echo—imagined or real—feeds the edge in his mind. The final rider tumbles, caught by a thrown dagger that pins his cloak to a rock. He does not move again.
The gorge falls silent. The air hangs thick with mist and the faint scent of wet metal.
Qiu Feng steps forward. "You have grown stronger than I expected," he says. "And yet… mercy lingers in your shadow."
Zhen Yan turns, sheathing his sword, retrieving his daggers. "Mercy is a luxury," he says. "One I will not afford those who would harm the innocent."
Qiu Feng bows his head slightly. "Then perhaps… one day, you will see that it is also a weapon."
Zhen Yan walks past him, leaving the gorge behind. Somewhere, in the higher echelons of the great family, the news arrives: a shadow moves faster than expected, striking deeper than planned.
The garden grows uneasy. And the Windshadow walks on, petals falling, roots bleeding, closer to the truth that waits beyond blood and silk.